Hi, my name is Adam Shergold, sports journalist and eternally optimistic (and perennially exiled) Boston United fan. These are my musings on the games I attend. Sometimes they can be quite funny.

Tuesday, 31 August 2010

Boston United 1 Eastwood Town 0

Life following Boston United continues to be like a roller-coaster, though if Saturday at Harrogate was the gut-wrenching loops or the 70ft drops, the Bank Holiday Monday fixture against Eastwood was the lame flat straight bit at the end. Continuing the second-half theme from Yorkshire, United’s performance was turgid and not particularly interesting to watch, the atmosphere at York Street similarly flat. Our away performances are superb at the moment, with opponents swept aside, but home games are purgatorial. We should have gone to the Banger Racing at Skegness or watched the marathon of Carry On films on Gold instead.

Hot-shot Shaun Pearson split the teams on the half-hour, but Eastwood were unfortunate not to get back on the A52 without a point. I suppose we mustn’t grumble: life in the Conference North isn’t all nine-goal thrillers and five wins from six have proven conclusively that we can compete in this company. Just as well that the defence and midfield are supplying goals as the strikeforce – popular scapegoat Danny Davidson in particular – look pretty rusty at times here.

Pre-match topics of discussion included the forthcoming Boston United Gentlemen’s Evening which, for the fiver admission, presumably includes a pint of Batemans XB and some kind of meat pie dish for the trauma of receiving a lap dance from Luscious Linda of Lincolnshire or Big Booty Brenda of Boston. I just found out I’m busy that evening...

The occasion wasn’t helped by an atrocious referee, who wasn’t so much pedantic but purely shite. He failed to spot a couple of handballs the average punter could see from 80 yards, at one point refused to allow the Boston physio on to the field to treat Spencer Weir-Daley and conjured seven minutes of stoppage time. If Eastwood had equalised in those dying moments, the home reaction would have made the riots of 2004 look like a pub car park bitch fight. He clearly didn’t trust his assistant either, endangering their friendship by overruling on a number of occasions despite blatantly being wrong himself. It’s fair to assume he didn’t make many new friends in Boston and when he stood facing a Town End bellowing ‘W**ker” at him in unison it must have crossed his mind that he could have been watching Bond on ITV.

But the performance of Mr. Newbold produced one wonderful moment – the return of the mad Cockney Controller who featured once or twice in my former blog on the brink of cardiac arrest in sheer exasperation at the standard of non-league officiating. The timing was perfect: as the crowd momentarily silenced, he launched another tirade – “Facking Hell, weferee, you’re ‘aving a facking laugh” he squealed, left arm waving about frantically to emphasise his ire. Everyone laughed. His crusade to improve the standard of step two refereeing is admirable but he really shouldn’t be getting so animated at his age.

Get us back on the road, please, we need more excitement in our lives.